


trees are their roots and wind is wind

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Post-Afterlife, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 12:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: Together they choose to live.





	trees are their roots and wind is wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddishly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/gifts).



> Written for the 2018 SPN_J2_Xmas fanworks exchange. For oddishly and her prompt: _Bleak curtainfic--they didn't want to give up hunting but they have to because reasons, or they tried to do happily ever after in a house but it didn't work and now they're back on the road._ With a twist.

They tumble down from Heaven on what is, on Earth, a warm spring afternoon. 

Their physical bodies have long been burned to ash. What's left of their bones--fragments, bits and pieces decomposing in the dank ground for countless seasons--is unrecognizable as once having been human. But the Winchester brothers have never been known for acquiescing to anything as trivial as the flow of time or whatever the god of the hour decrees as their fate. 

And so they find the right magic, and the earth heaves up those broken shards, and the wind brings back every microscopic speck and transmuted particle of dust that once made up the whole that gave them shape and sense and breath. And breathe again they do, that first lungful of air as sweet and painful as any of the dying they've ever done.

Lying side by side on the ground, naked and trembling as newborns, they seek each other out. Gravity wants them back in the grave, and in those early moments they feel the weight of the world upon them; only their fingers touch. But the assurance that they're both there is enough. 

Everything else will have its turn.

*

Sunlight burns through Sam's eyelids. The breeze caresses his skin, ruffles his hair, tickles at the sweat that drips down the sides of his neck. There's heat and cold, goose bumps rising all over his body. There's a hollowness in him, spaces inside him that echo the rush of his blood and the cadence of his heart. There are electrical storms in his brain, almost-memories that don't belong to him. Here he's a fox running across a forest. Here he's a worm burrowing into rain-soaked soil. Here he's a deer, a wolf, a beetle, a tree, many trees; here he's their roots, touching, touching, twining and growing around each other deep beneath the surface where there's only dark and silence.

Nothing is silent where he lies. The wind makes noises, rustling leaves and grasses all around him. Birds flap their wings, chirp and sing in greeting or farewell. Sam moves his lips, his tongue, pushes his breath up through his throat and his mouth. _Dean_ , he tries to say. _Dean_.

His brother's fingers tighten around his. With an effort Sam forces his eyes open, blinking hard in the too-bright light. 

Dean's face comes into view, blocking the sun. "Sammy," he whispers. His voice is barely a rasp, and it sends shivers through Sam's body, awakening every last part of him that had been dead and asleep for too long. 

"Dean," Sam whispers back. And Dean smiles, and Sam smiles, and the joy inside Sam is like a dam bursting open, tears trickling from the corners of his eyes, slick and warm, unexpected and welcome. 

Arms come around him, pull him up into a sitting position. Sam wraps his own arms around his brother and they hold each other for long minutes. The wind keeps making noise. The birds keep singing, keep alighting and taking flight. There's the murmur of water somewhere nearby, a whole separate sound that Sam hadn't distinguished from the rustle of leaves until now. 

With his face pressed against the curve of Dean's neck, Sam breathes deep and slow. Dean smells earthy, salt and sun and skin and _brother_. It fills Sam's nostrils, quickens other memories in him--the longings of lifetimes, things left unsaid and undone between them.

At length Sam realizes he's thirsty. He licks his lips but his mouth feels dry, and Dean pulls back, looks knowingly at him. They help each other up and stagger through the woods, following the beckoning burble of what Sam thinks is a river. Twigs and rocks dig into the bare soles of their feet, sharp and unpleasant, but the discomfort is further proof that they're alive again. They're both bleeding when they reach the riverbank, and they kneel on the pebbly ground and take small sips, cupping the cool water in their hands. 

"It worked," Dean says. His voice is less raspy now, but it still makes Sam shudder. "We're really here, Sam."

"We are," Sam agrees. He's distracted by the shape of his fingernails, the lines that crisscross the palm of his hand. In Heaven some of the details had seemed wrong, blurred, constantly shifting. Like a memory that changes in subtle ways each time it's recalled. 

"I think," Dean begins. 

Sam looks at him. Keeps looking while Dean examines his own hands, dips them in the river. They both watch water spill between Dean's fingers when he raises his hands again, glistening rose gold and silver in the now waning light. 

"I was a fish," Dean says. "Part of me, anyway." He glances at Sam, looks past him, up at the cloudless sky. "I was- an eagle?" He's smiling when he looks at Sam again. "An eagle, Sam!"

The fond sound of Sam's laughter startles them both. They laugh together then, happy and careless for this one moment. They hiss with pain when they wash their lacerated feet in the river, but for the time being every sensation is a gift. 

*

Sam remembers a cabin somewhere close. It's a deer-memory, the animal awareness of _other_ and _not-safe_ that now promises safety and shelter. They don't know how old the image in Sam's mind is, whether the cabin is still there or if it's long gone, but it's a lead and they have nothing to lose by following up on it. 

The cabin is a dark shape in the twilight when they emerge from the woods, the windows shuttered, no lights anywhere. Their feet are bleeding again, and they leave a trail of red footprints in their wake as they limp across the driveway and step upon the creaking porch. Stale air greets them as they break in. 

The lights flicker on when Sam flips the switch that he fumbles in the dimness to find. "Looks like it's been a while since anyone's been here." 

Dean says nothing, simply grunts his assent.

The main room has a big leather couch and a couple of armchairs, a fireplace, bookcase, a woven rug and an assortment of tables and trinkets, black and white pictures of woodsy landscapes on the walls. There are other rooms, kitchen, bathroom, three bedrooms. There's water in the taps and a few dried goods in the cupboards, canned food in the pantry. Strangers' faces smile at the camera in the photos hanging in the hallway. Ill-fitting clothes that will have to do for now fill the chest drawers in the bedrooms. 

With the doors and windows salted, they tend to the business of cleaning and bandaging their feet.

"I was really hoping for a computer," Sam says with a sigh. The acoustics of the bathroom make his voice sound odd, contained and amplified all at once. "Or at least a radio or a TV set."

"I guess whoever owns this place only comes here for fishin' or tree hugging or whatever." Dean taps Sam's left foot with his hand when he's done taping the gauze in place. "There, good as new."

Sam huffs softly, wiggling his toes. The pain barely registers, but his eyes are stinging when he raises his gaze to meet his brother's. 

Dean's fingers linger on Sam's foot for the briefest of moments. "You hungry? I'm hungry."

In the kitchen Sam inspects the expiration dates on the canned food while Dean stands at the stove, stirring soup. "2231," Sam says. 

"So it's been over two hundred years? Nothin' in here looks any different than I would've expected it to look like back in our time." He snorts. "So much for progress."

Sam shrugs at Dean's back. "Maybe the owners like old-fashioned things." He returns the cans to the pantry and sits at the kitchen table. 

The soup is good, creamy tomato that's sweet and savory in equal amounts. It fills Sam's stomach, warms him up. But all the hollow places inside him still feel empty when he's done eating, and the warmth doesn't last.

*

There's no question that they'll be sharing the same bed. Neither of them wants to be out of reach of each other. 

They lie back to back in the king-sized bed in the master bedroom. The t-shirt and sweats that Sam's wearing are worn and comfortable; the sheets are clean. But the smell of dust hangs in the air throughout the house and Sam's nose itches, his skin itches. He makes himself stay still, listening to Dean's breaths in the semi-darkness. The narrow gap between his back and Dean's feels alive with their combined body heat. 

Dean's voice is soft and low, almost as if he hopes Sam won't hear it. "I'm starting to think you're regrettin' this."

"I don't," Sam murmurs. It's not a lie.

The night deepens. Moonlight filters in through the dirty windowpane.

The mattress complains when Sam shifts his weight and rolls onto his back. Dean mirrors him, and they both lie awake staring at the ceiling. Shadows pantomime simple scenes for them, branches that look like bridges and roads, leaves that mimic fluttering insect wings. Memories of lives-not-his play in Sam's mind, impressions of misty mornings and soft fur, underground root systems, the interconnectedness of things.

Dean brushes his fingers against Sam's. It's like that afternoon all over again, gravity tugging at Sam's insides. 

"I want more," Sam says. "More than what we had before."

"This _is_ more, Sammy. This is _real_."

Sam turns to face his brother. "I'm not talking about Heaven."

A gust of wind rattles the windows. No one else says anything. 

"You said you wanted to be alive again, Dean. So we're alive again. You said Heaven was too clean. You said you wanted messy."

There's a long pause. Even the wind is silent, as if the world is holding its breath. Dean's eyes are like beacons in the night, shining bright with caught moonlight. Until he closes them. "Get some sleep, Sam."

"Really? We're not even gonna talk about it?"

With a sigh, Dean turns on his side, his back to Sam again. "I'm tired," he says. And he does sound tired; too tired for someone who's been alive for less than a full day.

Sam's dreams, when he sleeps, are all about hollowed out trees and the forlorn voices of the wind.

* 

The next morning they set up a perimeter alarm around the cabin. They stash food and essentials, including the sharpest knives they can find in the kitchen, in a bundle that they hide in the woods. Getting used to their bodies again before they go out into an unknown world sounds like the best course of action to them, but they need to make sure they won't be left without any supplies if they have to vacate the place in a hurry.

They wash and scrape at their bloody footprints, there and then gone, no trace left of their passage. They start a routine, jogging in the woods in the mornings, sparring in the late afternoons. They do target practice with rocks and empty cans, light fires using nothing but stones and sticks and natural kindling just to make sure they still remember how. 

There are shovels in the small shed out the back of the cabin, and they dig holes in the mossy ground to strengthen and retrain their muscles. There's only one pair of gloves that they take turns using, and their palms and fingers become as rough and callused as they used to be. Sam aches all over, his shoulders and his arms, his back, his thighs and calves. His insides ache, all those unnamed and untouched places in him that Dean won't let him acknowledge. 

They both spend every free moment reading, going through every book in the cabin, looking for relevant information about the state of the world, but they're all novels and there's no telling fact from fiction. Sam starts following his other-memories, looking for clues there too, and it's overwhelming, too many images at once, things he doesn't always understand. 

"You gotta quit this, Sammy," Dean comments one night. They're sitting in front of the fireplace in the family room and Sam's been staring at the flames, remembering overcast skies and the sensation of pelting rain on bark. 

"I think it was the magic we used," Sam says, not looking at his brother. "Everyone's atoms were once part of something else. Ours were too, before. But now we remember some of it."

Dean kneels on the floor next to him. Sam looks at Dean's face, noticing each freckle, each sweeping eyelash. "I get the appeal, I do," Dean says, his tone whiskey-warm. "But you're going too far, Sam."

"Don't I always," Sam whispers.

"Sammy." Dean looks lost. He looks like he's hurting.

At least they're on equal footing now.

"Who am I, Dean? All these lives, all these sense-memories. I'm not- I don't know-" 

"You're you," Dean says. "You ain't a freakin' tree or some wild animal, you're Sam Winchester. You're my brother."

Sam focuses on Dean's eyes. "And what else?" He holds Dean's gaze, daring Dean to look away. 

Dean looks away.

*

They're still sharing the bed. Side by side and back to back, always. Just like they used to stand when fighting monsters together.

It's a moonless night and the room is dark. Everything now smells like them, their borrowed clothes, the sheets, the air. It's the smell of home, and Sam thinks he might be happy if they could just stay here and never fight monsters again. 

"We've been here for too long," he says into the gloom. "I think it's time to leave."

Sam's expecting some hesitation, but Dean's reply is instantaneous. "We don't know what's out there, Sam. We don't know _who_ 's out there."

"And?"

This is where the pause happens, then. Night sounds intrude upon the silence between them, the rhythmic song of cicadas and the dripping faucet in the bathroom. 

"You're scared." The realization hits Sam all at once, and he can't keep the words from being said. 

Dean's tone is gruff, but Sam can hear the note of vulnerability underneath it. "Damn right I am," Dean breathes. 

They turn at the same time, rolling to face each other in bed. Sam wonders what Dean sees in the dark beyond the silhouette of his body and the shadows in his eyes. 

"You're mortal again, Sam," is what Dean tells him.

"So are you," Sam counters.

Callused fingers brush against Sam's. "But you," Dean whispers. He brings his hand up to Sam's face, traces the line of Sam's jaw. "I wish, Sammy."

"What," Sam says. He touches Dean's arm, rubs his thumb against Dean's wrist, feels the delicate shape of it. 

"I wish you'd never have to die again. I wish I could keep you safe forever."

The ache in Sam's chest is a familiar one. "But you can't," he says, not unkindly. "You can't, Dean. I'm going to die again, we both are. It's gonna happen." 

The ensuing silence takes on a different quality this time. It's hushed and patient, waiting. 

"Promise me," Dean breathes. "If- when it happens we'll go together. Like last time."

"Like last time," Sam promises. "But-" 

Their fingers lace together, hands holding on tight to each other. "Go on," Dean murmurs.

"You wanted this, Dean. You wanted the pain and the misery back. You wanna bleed and sweat and eat and shit, and there's no getting that without the dying. And I want it too, all of it, I want it as messy as you do. I want it complicated and _ours_. But I want it all the way. There's gotta be more than just killing things and waiting to die." Sam grips Dean's hand tighter in his, tighter, Dean's bones like twigs beneath his skin. 

They stare at each other in the dark, and Sam wonders. He wonders what Dean sees in him. He wonders who Dean is now, what he's been, where else the atoms in his body lived for the past two hundred and something years, swimming in deep waters, soaring across wide open skies. The mystery of his brother's heart is a tug more powerful than gravity; it always has been. Sam wants to unravel it, he wants to unravel Dean from the inside out. 

"I'm _alive_ , Dean," Sam says. "I'm alive." 

And so he is. So they both are.

The back of Dean's neck feels warm under Sam's hand, sunburned skin that Sam longs to taste. Dean fits his body against Sam's as they kiss, climbs on top of him, the contour of his broad shoulders a deeper darkness in the night. Sam runs his fingers through his brother's hair, pulls hard just to make Dean's mouth fall open. Just to hear Dean's gasp. Just to feel Dean's hips stutter and grind against his own. 

Sam's lips brush against Dean's cheek when he speaks. "I don't wanna wonder anymore, Dean. I wanna know. I wanna know." 

"Okay," Dean whispers. "Okay."

*

The longings of lifetimes. All the unnamed spaces within.

Even hollow trees shiver when the wind passes through them.

*

After, lying side by side in the dark, they hold each other close. Sleep tugs at them, turning their limbs and eyelids heavy, and together they surrender to dreams. 

It's enough for now. It's enough.

Everything else will have its turn.


End file.
